Veni, Vidi, Vici
by LMRichardson
Summary: Very AU! What would the most important, influential people of Rome be like as High School Students? Heavy slash content - Main pairing - Julius Caesar/Mark Antony, but with Augustus/Agrippina and Marcellus/Messalina. Not as weird as it sounds, and a good laugh - can be read without any historical knowledge. Created from too much imagination and a boring Ancient History lesson.
1. Chapter 1

"We'll see, we'll go and we'll _lose _if you idiots don't get your heads out of your asses!" Shouts Gus, also known as Augustus but only to those who want to be crucified, as he snaps out of his crouch quick enough to make Marcellus yelp and land on his ass. "We've got a game against the Titans next week, and I swear to _God_ if we don't win you'll all wish you'd transferred to fucking Aegean State and the Parsons Pirates by the weekend!"

"Aw, come-on Gus, we've only been back half a day. You're gonna kill us before the Championships if you carry this on" complains Marcellus, dusting non-existent mud off of his jersey as he gets to his feet.

"Did you just watch that play? We need all the practice we can get!"

"It's a conspiracy! He's trying to kill us all!" Stage whispers Mark, leaning against Caesar as the two burst out into cackles loud enough to draw the attention of the entire student body.

"Its senior year, you dick. If you want to lose to the fucking Parsons Pirates again then I can find myself another Fullback who can actually _block the damn ball._"

"Yeah, Mark, you're easily replaceable" sneers Caesar, but his voice is laced with humour and the wink he sends to Mark before he declares overdramatically, "to him, obviously. Not to the rest of us," makes the comment not in the least bit hurtful.

"Be still, my beating heart" mocks Mark, clutching at his chest.

"Ugh, can we just have one practise without your ridiculous double act?" growls Gus, clenching his hands around the football sheerly to stop the overwhelming _need _to whack the rest of the team, his friends since Junior High, around the head hard enough the knock some sense into them. "Caesar, I would have thought that you more than anybody would have wanted to beat the Pirates this year."

"Of course I do, but we won't play them until the Championships. And that isn't until June. It's _September._"

"We won't get to the Championships unless we beat the other teams in the Play-Offs"

"We're more than capable of beating the Lawrence Titans. Anyway, you can continue this into lunch if you want, but I'm hitting the showers. Fifth period ends in ten minutes, buddy." Says Caesar, rolling his eyes at Gus' outraged expression and heading off of the field. If Gym Class this semester is gonna be full of extra practices like this, then the team is in for a very hard senior year.

Yanking his jersey off of his head the moment he's in the locker-room, Julius Caesar strips quickly, wrapping a towel around his hips before the rest of the team even makes it through the door.

"You alright, mate?" Asks Mark, pulling his own jersey over his head, along with the bulky shoulder pads, all the while, his eyes are trained unwaveringly on Caesar. He wads the gold and purple material up in his fist and dumps it into his gym bag, bending to pick his water bottle off of the bench.

"Y-yeah" Stutters Caesar, coughing to clear the sudden husky tone to his voice. The blue of Marks eyes pierces through him, making his breath stutter and his cheeks heat.

"You look sort of flushed" observes Mark, pushing the top of his bottle through his lips and opening the lid with a quick tug of his teeth.

"It's hot in here" breaths Caesar, watching the muscles work in Marks throat, the delicate bob of his Adams apple as he swallows.

"Hmm," hums Mark noncommittally, chucking his bottle back into his bag, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Maybe you should go and have a cold shower," whispers Mark, leaning around Caesar on the pretence of passing Gus the Playbook, pressing his chest against Caesars flushed skin and brushing his thigh against the other man teasingly. "It might bring your temperature down a bit. I'll be there in a second to make sure you don't pass out and drown in the drain," chuckles Mark, low and throatily, as he slips the tips of his fingers into the golden spandex around his hips. Caesar turns tail and almost runs to the showers before the bulge in his towel becomes too obvious.

…

"Try-outs are tomorrow during lunch, guys" says Gus, running his fingers through his hair.

"We need a new Guard and a Wingback. The rest of you were on the team last year and unless there's a freshman who plays better, you can be sure you've still got your place. But if you don't put the effort in, you won't be playing past the first pep-rally. Got it?"

"Sir, yes, sir" sniggers Marcellus, snapping a mock salute. The rest of the team troop past, heading to lunch.

"Where are Caesar and Mark?"

"Where d'you think?" And the suggestive waggle of his eyebrows makes Gus burst out laughing for the first time all day. "They can't truly believe we're that oblivious?"

"Apparently so. Wanna go run all the hot taps in the bathroom? Flush them out with cold water?"

"If you deprive Caesar of an orgasm, he'll be a bastard all day," warns Marcellus, but he continues before Gus can get a word it, "na, it's completely worth it" and with twin evil smirks, they've got the hot taps on full blast.

…

"Should I be worried about just how many kinks you seem to have?" Mutters Caesar, turning around as the wet slap of footsteps ring in his ears, barely audible over his own hitching breath. He runs his hands over his body, spreading the citrusy shower-gel over his skin, watching Marks' slow approach. "I mean – the back seat of your car, beneath the bleachers, your fucking _neighbour's _swimming pool. Do you just find the risk of getting caught a turn-on?"

"If I say yes, will you stop indulging me?" Asks Mark with a pout. It should be the most ridiculous looking expression on an eighteen year old _man's _face, especially on a 6 foot, 218 pound man, but it turns Caesars legs to an embarrassing state of jell-o.

"Probably not," admits Caesar, tipping his head back to let the water run over his hair and down his face. "But we should be more careful. Messalina nearly caught us the other day, and I'm guessing you don't want Cleo to know?" The bitterness is evident in his voice but Mark doesn't even reply, just hangs up his towel and plasters himself against Caesar.

"I can't come out yet, Cae. My dad would kill us both"

"No, he'd kill me," corrects Caesar, nuzzling his face into the hollow between Marks throat and shoulder even though his mind is screaming at him that it's not worth the risk. "You're his only son, his only _child_, he wouldn't hurt you"

"He'd disinherit me"

"Money means more to you than I do," And it's said as a statement, not a question.

"That's not true, and you know it." Growls Mark, twisting his fingers into Caesars dark hair hard enough for it to hurt, "but I need his money for college, for my future, _our _future. Dating Cleo, brining her to his stupid business functions and pretending she'll be the mother of his high born, old-money grandchildren, makes him happy. If he's happy, he'll leave me alone. The moment I end things with Cleo, he'll start snooping."

"I don't want to keep lying to our friends, Mark. I know my break up with Cleo was nasty, but that doesn't mean that I like the fact that you're cheating on her with me"

"If you come out, my father will _despise _you and he'll make sure I stay away just to make sure I don't 'catch gay'. He's a homophobic bastard but he can make both our lives a hell of a lot more difficult if he doesn't at least think he's getting his way"

"I'm not hiding who I am much longer, Mark, I'm coming out –" His words are cut off with a gasp as the hands in his hair tighten. Then lips; hot and wet from the water, are smashed desperately against his, hard enough to bruise. Words are unnecessary now, just the press of skin on skin, the glide and tug of lips on lips, teeth and tongue, and they're both lost in the sensations. They stumble backwards a step, tangled around each other tight enough that it's impossible to tell whose arms are whose, crashing hard against the cold tiles of the stall.

"_You _are the one I want," growls Mark, low in his throat, pressing a searing kiss to Caesars throat. He repeats the declaration like a promise, sealing and punctuating it each time with a kiss, working his way quickly down the other mans chest.

Marks knees hit the titled floor harder than he'd intended but the jolt of pain mixes with the sharp hold Caesar has on his hair, sending a shiver of dark pleasure straight through him. There's a dull thunk as Caesars head hits against the wall, his breath ragged and loud in the silence of the locker-room, reverberating around the small space, spurring Mark on as he dips his head —

"Shit! Fucking _hell_!" Yelps Mark, jumping to his feet and propelling himself away from the freezing jet of water that had just seconds before been the perfect temperature. Caesar is right behind him, tumbling ungracefully out into the main area.

"When you said a cold shower, I didn't think you were being serious" Snaps Caesar, glaring hotly at his still naked 'boyfriend'. Orgasm denial is not something that should be used as a practical joke!

"Yeah, because I'd willing freeze my own ass off too," replies Mark, voice thick with sarcasm. He grabs the two towels hanging off of the nearby hook and throws one to Caesar, "as much as I hate to say this; we should get dressed"

"It's a good thing we've both got loose jeans then," chuckles Caesar, looking pointedly down at Marks still very obvious hard-on, despite the inopportune cold-shower, before looping the towel round his hips and striding off back to his locker.

"I have a rather brilliant shower at my house," says Mark conversationally, following Caesar whilst twisting his own towel around his neck, padding stark naked after his 'boyfriend'. "With unlimited hot water and everything"

"Lucky you," deadpans Caesar.

"My dad's at a conference until tomorrow. I have the house to myself for the night"

"Really? Wow" replies Caesar in a monotone, but Mark can see the smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Wanna keep me company?"

"No," answers Caesar, fast as a whip. Mark bursts out laughing, twisting his towel quickly and flicking it sharply across Caesars ass. He's laughing too hard to even make a reproachful comment; instead Caesar just winds his arms around Marks neck, placing a quick, chaste kiss to his lips. "I think I can cope with your ridiculously expensive shower. Just as long as you're in it"

"That's a promise I'm only too happy to keep"


	2. Chapter 2

Ali, or Messalina Annabelle Jones to her father, without doubt, is the prettiest girl in the entire student body of Palatine Private. It's not vanity to say that when everybody else believes it, obviously – it's just a statement. It's probably her onyx hair, long enough to brush teasingly against the small of her back even when in the regulation high ponytail, dark emerald green eyes; the colour startlingly similar to the Dartmouth Lacrosse teams jersey and legs that God made just to be encased in spankies. No seriously, if she could get away with just wearing spankies to Math, she'd completely do it.

Oh, and she'd also already hooked up with two thirds of the senior class. And made-out with the rest of them. Yeah, that includes the girls. A fucks a fuck at the end of the day. Boy, girl, whatever – a warm body and an orgasm is what's important, a stupid thing like gender. _Is. Not_.

"I mean, _seriously_, did you _see_ her ass?" Sneers Ali, yanking an O.J out of Agrippina's hand and plonking it down on her own tray. "You should just get water, Gina. And stick to the salad otherwise I'm gonna have to put you at the base of the pyramid. I _swear _I told the entire squad not to get fat over the summer – it's like nobody fucking listens to me anymore! Selene seems to have grown another ass cheek in the space of three months!"

"You're head cheerleader, Al. Just kick em off the squad." Placates Gina, sighing inwardly at the completely bland salad; the edges of the lettuce limp and wilting. Ugh.

"I might just do that," declares Ali snottily, curling her lip at the dining hall assistant and snatching the five dollar bill from her hand, leaving a few coins in the woman's palm. "You can keep the quarter; put it towards some decent lipstick or something."

"Thanks" murmurs Gina, not looking the assistant in the face, snatching her own tray up and hurrying along behind her best friend.

Sometimes, being friends with Messalina Annabelle Jones is a blast – what with the continuous flood of money from daddy's credit card, unlimited access to the family cabin in Toronto, the New York Penthouse and a place on Palatine Romans Cheerleading squad. But other times, it's hard to keep up the bitch persona constantly. Agrippina is in no way nice, but Messalina is a whole new type of 'mean girl' Hell, she's in her own fucking category of 'completely-venomous-whore'. It's a category that very few alumni will ever have the privilege, or horror depending on how you look at it, of being sorted into.

"Come on," demands Ali, glaring back over her shoulder at Gina to say, "Gus looks lonely," before winding her way through the tables and plonking herself down by his side. If he wasn't already squished up against the surface, trying to keep the ketchup on his burger from dripping down his shirt, she'd have probably jumped in his lap, wrapped herself around his body and fucking rutted against him right there in front of everybody.

"That seat's taken" says Gus, monotone, without so much as taking his eyes off of his bun.

Ah, Augustus Octavius; captain of the football team, shoo-in for senior Prom King and possible Valedictorian, if that stupid Cicero bastard doesn't worm his way in there first – also, the only man on the football team to turn down Messalina's numerous, very _not subtle_, advances. Well, apart from Mark Antony, but he's been with Cleo I've-managed-to-get-myself-the-fullback-even-thoug h-I'm-a-skank Ptolemy for the last year so that's hardly surprising. How the hell Cleo managed to get both Caesar and Mark is anyone's guess, but you've gotta give her kudos for the effort.

"It looked empty to me," replies Ali, her lips twisting into what she probably thinks is an alluring smile, but the frustration behind it is easy to see. It looks more like a grimace. Or like she's constipated. Probably not a good idea to tell her that though, muses Gina as she slips into the seat on Ali's right, trying to look invisible.

It doesn't work.

"Hey, Gina," smiles Gus, tipping his head slightly in a warm greeting. They'd been placed in the same AP U.S History class sophomore year, and created a tentative friendship over joint study groups - much to Ali's annoyance. True to form, before Gina can get a word in, Ali leans forwards, blocking Gina from Gus' gaze and twirls a curl of hair around her finger, pushing her cleavage against the table and making sure that he has a clear view straight down her Shell. The squads' uniform isn't particularly revealing normally, but Messalina's unique ability to slut-up any outfit is really at work right now.

"Are you sure you weren't just sat here, all alone, waiting for me?" She flirts, reaching out to lie an almost talon like pink nail on his forearm. He shrugs it off easily, shooting a glare at her.

"Actually, you're in my seat," says Marcellus, dumping his tray hazardously on Gus's right side and sliding onto the bench with all the grace of an overly muscled quarterback. His voice is deep, smooth and oddly lyrical – the kind of voice that could read you to sleep quite easily or take a crowd on an emotional rollercoaster. His golden hair dips across his forehead, the strands tangling in his eyelashes. He roughly backhands it away absentmindedly, narrowing his eyes at Messalina. The flecks of hazel in his eyes seem to flicker like flames, dancing across the otherwise dull brown irises.

"It looks like you managed to find another one," snaps Ali, her jaw twitching in frustration, gritting the words out from between clenched teeth. Marcellus' eyes flash again, probably remembering the rumour Ali has spread after their one and only hook-up. Something about a third nipple. Or a small dick. Or only lasting a minute. Honestly, it's hard to keep up with the sheer amount of rumours she spreads just for the fun of it.

"She's not worth it, mate," says Caesar, squeezing Marcellus' shoulder and folding himself into the seat next to him, followed quickly by Mark and (Ugh!) Cleo.

"Neither were you," chuckles Ali darkly, raising one perfectly waxed eyebrow in semblance of a challenge. Surprisingly, it isn't Caesar who accepts. Mark beats him to it.

"Just fuck off, Ali, and take your herpes with you," he growls, blue eyes blazing like chips of Azurite.

He leans closer into Caesar, probably unconsciously, and practically rests his head on his friends shoulder. There's something weird going on there, thinks Gina, it goes deeper than friendship. They seem to gravitate towards each other, constantly seeking the others attention. Marks eyes gleam brighter in Caesars presence than they ever have in Cleo's. And vice versa. Its…odd.

"_Herpes_?!" Shrieks Ali furiously. Her nail, still resting on Gus' arm, seems to dig into the flesh. He winces slightly, but doesn't make any other outward sign of the discomfort it must be causing him. "If that's true, then you might not want to get quite so close to your boy there."

"Get over yourself," growls Caesar, putting a somewhat restraining hand on Marks arm, who looks like he's about ready to jump the table and throttle Ali. "You sucked my dick, Ali. And I'd appreciate it if you didn't keep pretending that anything else happened. I have standards. And you're so far below them, that you might as well be in the fucking Mariana Trench!"

"God, you people aren't worth my time," rages Ali, grabbing her tray off of the table harshly and stomping off over to the other side of the room. "What the actual _fuck _are you waiting for, Gina?"

…

"She is seriously the vilest girl I've ever met," shudders Cleo, watching Ali shouting at a terrified looking Gina. Her voice dips slightly, slipping back into the heavier Egyptian accent she only ever uses when she isn't thinking about the words tumbling out of her mouth. Her English is perfect, like a native speaker, but in the year she's been here already, the Egyptian hasn't wavered in the slightest.

"S-s-she used-d to b-be alright-t-t," stutters Claudius, raising his head from the book he'd been reading, blinking around the table as if surprised to see it suddenly full. He gulps audibly, his right eye twitching spasmodically. "W-wh-_en_, we were k-kids"

"Yeah, before she started fucking anything with a pulse," laughs Gus, rubbing at the crescent moon shaped groove in his forearm, a small frown denting his forehead. He smiles reassuringly at his cousin, trying to stop his own eyes from twitching as Claudius gazes back at him.

"She was always a bitch, Claudius. Now she's just a skank with it," spits Caesar, jabbing at his fries with his fork with more force than is really necessary. He gives up after a second and just grabs a fistful, stuffing them into his mouth with a savage bite. Anger seems to radiate from him.

"Someone seems very _frustrated_ today," smirks Marcellus, winking discreetly at Gus who nearly chokes on a bite of burger. Chasing it down with a sip of protein shake, (isn't _that _a delightful combination!) he glances at Caesar, noticing the slightly feverish look in his midnight eyes, and the blotchy red flush against his cheeks. Come to think of it, Mark doesn't really look much better. They can't be _that _angry with Ali, surely? In fact, they kind of look hot. Like they've run round the field one too many times. Or like they've…oh…_oh_.

"Yeah, you do, guys," says Gus, trying to hide his own smirk. Mark shifts a little in his seat, gulps, and turns his full attention to Cleo. Caesar yanks his Math book out of his bag, pretending to suddenly be very interested in Calculus.

"Oh, speaking of Math, Caesar," starts Marcellus, "did you finish the Calc work Mr Vipsanius set over the summer? I found it really _hard_." Caesar's tongue runs over his bottom lip.

"Really, Cell? I thought it was pretty easy. In fact, I reckon I'm just not gonna _come _to the lesson." Caesar's fist clenches around his pencil.

"Yeah, but you always ace midterms, Gus. Maybe you should just _screw _the entire first semester." Caesar shifts slightly on the bench.

"I don't know, Cell. Coach reckons any scouts will want me to be at least C average. Maybe I could kiss some of the teacher's _asses_ to get a good grade without turning up."

"That's a good idea," nods Marcellus, biting his lip against the burst of laughter bubbling in his throat at Caesars bright red face. Marks hand is under the table, hopefully resting on his thigh, but more likely palming his unofficial (scratch that, _nobody can ever know_) 'boyfriends' cock through his jeans, if the bitten back moan Caesar gives is anything to go by. Seriously?! In the middle of the fucking dining hall?! With his _girlfriend _sat next to him?! Weird, weird, kink. "Even if you don't come in, mate, can you still drive me home? You know you're the one with the best _ride_."

"Course, I will. I wouldn't just leave you to walk home. You live like, what, ten blocks away? Making you walk that would be well _fucked _up." Caesar growls slightly, pushing away from the table quickly, clutching his Math book to his crotch.

"I…erm…need to…to finish the Calc work," he says breathlessly, "I'm gonna go to the library. See y'all in Math." And he bolts from the room. Well, leaves as quickly as a guy with what is probably a raging hard-on can, anyway.

"I'm, um, gonna go help him," says Mark, packing his own books into his bag. "You know how bad he is at Calc." Gus and Marcellus nod at him, trying to look at innocent as possible.

"Want me to come with you?" Asks Cleo, looking up at Mark with big, brown eyes.

"_No_!" Shouts Mark, far too loudly. "Um, no, babe. It's alright. I'll text you later." He leans to press a very reluctant looking kiss to her cheek and hurries after Caesar, try and failing not to look too eager.

Marcellus and Augusts' laughs can be heard outside on the Quad.


	3. Chapter 3

Friends are a commodity that Claudius Germanicus has had very little experience of throughout his entire seventeen years. There's Gus, obviously, but a cousin doesn't truly count as a friend – no matter what your mom tells you when he's the only person who turns up to your tenth birthday party. Mom's are like that though, they tell you want you want to hear. Unfortunately, that makes everything they say sort of suspect.

There was, at one point, another person who filled the empty hole that lurked inside Claudius – the one created by being the perpetual prize 'special Ed' kid since kindergarten. Messalina was that person. He hadn't been joking at lunch when he'd told Caesar and the others that she wasn't always the bitch that she is now.

In freshman year they'd been inseparable. His twitches, stutter and tendency to drool if he spent too much time daydreaming hadn't stopped her from plonking down in the seat next to him in Homeroom and stealing one of his Red Vines. He'd known from that moment that he was finally going to have a _proper _friend.

And a proper friend, she had been.

Until the first time she got laid that is. Claudius can remember exactly when that happened – she'd phoned him and gushed for _hours, _and he'd listened and made comments when the moment called for it, like a good and dutiful friend. Yeah, like a _girl_friend. But so what? If he could have foreseen the change that would happen in the next few months, he would have put the fucking phone down.

Being wanted, desired – considered attractive to the people she'd once called 'shallow, obnoxious fucktards' – went to her head. Instead of walking to school together in the mornings, she'd hitch rides with the people who'd tormented Claudius. Instead of sharing packets of Red Vines at lunch, she'd sit on the other side of the dining hall – sneering at Claudius like the rest of them.

But he could have forgiven her that. He could have forgiven her anything. Anything but starting the food fight that was pretty much a lets-stick-a-target-on-the-special-kid-and-see-if- we-can-knock-him-out-with-flying-burritos free for all. It had been the incident that had caused Claudius' mom to transfer him to Palatine Private, to the sanctuary of being Augusts' cousin. Thankfully, the tormenting became less frequent – what with the entire Romans football team ready to beat the shit out of anyone who so much as thought of hurting their beloved captains cousin.

Messalina had transferred to Palatine Private eight months later, half way through sophomore year, thanks to daddy's successful business venture, like a bad smell that never quite goes away, and was ten times worse than she had ever been. The girl with the scuffed sneakers, oversized jumpers and unhealthy obsession with Red Vines was gone.

Not that he wants to be friends with Ali anymore. Yes, he misses _Messalina_ and the friend she used to be. But he's fine on his own. Who needs friends anyway? It's so much easier to fade into the background – to watch, to observe those around him, than to actively participate.

And in Claudius' opinion; anyone who watched Caesar and Mark for even a minute would see just how close the two really are. Someone, say, like Suetonius.

Claudius watches as a smirk tugs at Suetonius' lips, his eyes trailing Mark as he almost jogs out of the dining hall, from the other side of the room. And Claudius knows, for sure, that he's not that only person watching. Maybe he should warn the guys. After all – _Praemonitus, praemunitus_. Forewarned is forearmed.

…

"I'm having a party," declares Gus, turning the wheel left as they pull out of the parking lot. "On Saturday. Gina suggested it in Health class – Kind of like a welcome to senior year thing."

"Your mom'll flip, mate"

"She won't be home," smiles Gus, looking over at Marcellus. He's got his feet propped up on the dash, watching the rows of houses speed past the window as Augustus nudges the gas a little further.

"Who're you inviting?"

"Just gonna Facebook it. See who turns up"

"_Sweet_!"

…

One day, Caesar thinks as he scales the tree easily and taps on Mark's bedroom window, it would be nice to walk through the front door. A tangle of brown curls appear in the window almost instantly, followed by a pair of bright, excited eyes; the pupils blown so wide that only a minute ring around each iris shimmers with a sapphire hue. These are the eyes that watch him, half lidded with pleasure, as a warm, wet heat burns around him – his nerves blazing as Mark works his throat, drawing out moans that Caesar didn't even know he was capable of making. They are the most beautiful, most erotic, most expressive eyes he has ever seen.

Each emotion has a shade – the tone of which Caesar has catalogued in his mind through sheer _need _to experience everything Mark is willing to give him. Steel blue, like a maelstrom, when he's angry. Azure when he's happy. Periwinkle when he's so lost in a daydream that pulling him out of it would be almost cruel. Royal when he's deep in thought. And so many others that Caesar is yet to see. His favourite though, by far, is the sleepy, satisfied gleam of turquoise that peers at him from under a tumble of mussed up curls, sweat-stuck to his forehead, after a particularly intense orgasm.

They're yet to go all the way, but the anticipation of seeing what shade Mark's eyes will be as he leans over – his skin flushed and hot, his lips kiss-swollen and red, his hands rough, demanding, _desperate_ as he pushes in; finally bringing them as close as any one person can be to another – is almost as strong as the anticipation of the way Mark will feel inside him.

Note to self, thinks Caesar – Must. Stop. Fantasising. About. Mark's. Eyes. He's gay, yes, but that's absolutely no reason to turn into a fucking _girl_. Mark makes a hand motion through the window that either means 'wait, wait, wait', or 'get in here now, I'm having an epileptic fit', which Caesar takes to be the former since he's about ninety nine percent sure Mark doesn't have epilepsy. The steady way that he walks away from the glass also suggests he's not having some kind of seizure.

Mark opens his bedroom door, and pokes his head out; presumably checking the corridor is empty. Some part of Caesar wants to punch the idiot for wanting so desperately to hide him, but the other, much bigger part, is far too occupied with the absolutely _fantastic _view Caesar has of Mark's ass – cupped deliciously in obscenely tight black jeans. It takes quite a bit of effort not to start drooling like Claudius at his most absentminded.

Caesar draws his eyes further up Mark's body, taking in the slope of his back, the distinctly _masculine_ line of his shoulders. Both of which Caesar is intimately acquainted with. He knows the way the muscles beneath Mark's skin bunch and flex, the way his back arches when he comes, the perfect dip where back meets ass, that fits Caesar's palm just right, like it was sculpted just for him to touch – just for him to use, to draw Mark closer, harder against his own body. Caesar can feel his palms tingle, little drops of sweat dewing. He can hear his heart thumping painfully loud in his chest – can feel the blood rushing straight to his cock. It's not just a desire to touch him – it's primal, dark, and all-consuming. And if Mark doesn't open the fucking window in the next few seconds, Caesar may just have to put his _fist through it_!

As if he can read Caesars mind, Mark shuts the door, the slam making the double-glazing shudder, and turns to face him. The shirt he's wearing makes Caesar smile – the blue the exact same shade as his eyes at his angriest, (again with the eyes, Caesar! _Seriously_?!) The material is clingy; moulding itself to the sharp dips and plains of his chest, the white lines of the Thirty Seconds to Mars triangle stretched out right over his heart. Right now, it's half un-tucked, like he'd yanked his pants on in a rush. Caesar's never wanted anything more than to yank the rest of it out with his _teeth_.

It's been two months since drinking far too many Budweiser's had made them think that shoving their hands down each other's pants was a good idea, and this is the first time in those sixty-two days that Caesar has thought that maybe, just maybe, a good fuck isn't the only thing he wants from the man standing in front of him. Love may be slightly too strong of a term right now, but it's a damn sight closer to describing how he feels than 'friends with benefits'. Shit – since when has he been such a _girl_? He might as well start painting his room pink and starting dancing to Katy _fucking _Perry! The soft _snick _of the latch washes over Caesar, and then the window's being lifted and he's clambering inside so fast it's surprising he doesn't fall face first through it.

"Take your time, why don't you," Growls Caesar, smashing his lips against Mark's hard enough to bruise, pouring the frustration that's been building up since the locker-room fail into the kiss, murmuring against his lips, "If my thoughts had gotten any sappier, my dick would have fallen off from the sheer lack of testosterone. And then where would we be?"

"That's not too good," And the reply is so unbelievably seriously that Caesar almost opens his mouth to tell him it was a joke, until Mark's lips tilt – his smile predatory and suggestive, dark and promising. "I should check. Just to make sure it's still there, obviously. And everything's in working order."

"Yeah, that's probably a good idea," breathes Caesar, a shiver trembling through his body as Mark attack his belt, nimble fingers making quick work of the buckle. The sound of the zipper makes his breath catch in his throat.

"Mark!" It takes longer than it really should for Caesar to realise that the voice belonged to neither him, nor Mark.

"Yeah?" Shouts Mark, not looking in the slightest bit worried that his dad is _still in the house_. After all the hell about needing to use Cleo as his beard, he does _this_! His voice is annoyingly normal, like he's completely unaffected by that fact that his fingertips are now dipped _inside_ the waistband of Caesar's Calvin Klein's.

"I'm off," comes the answer, seemingly from the bottom of the stairs this time. "I left money on the counter, get some take out or something"

"'kay. Thanks, dad. Bye," If there's an answering farewell, or an admonishment to the pretty shit goodbye, it's lost in Mark's groan as his hand finally wraps around Caesar's cock.

"M-Mark," And this time it's Caesar's voice – stuttered, harsh and low with arousal.

Caesar's fingers curl around Mark's upper arms and he locks his knees, trying to stay upright as wave after wave of pleasure skitters down his spine and pools in the bottom of his stomach. Caesar's fingers flex, nails biting into the flesh and muscle of the other mans biceps, but Mark doesn't slow his pace, in fact, it becomes faster, harder, more punishing. The rhythmic slide and pull, up and down movement doesn't falter as he swipes his thumb over the head on every other stroke, collecting the pre-come gathering there. Mark's breath is hot against the skin of his throat – panting into the juncture between his neck and shoulder. His lips move shakily up and over, mouthing across his jaw, tongue rasping against the stubble from where he hadn't had time to shave this morning.

Caesar's hips stutter – the need to thrust burning through every nerve in his body. Mark lets him, fisting his hand tighter, squeezing slightly into Caesar's movements. It's quick, hot, and brutal and in no way fair to Mark if the straining bulge at the front of his pants is anything to go by – his own cock begging for the attention being so brilliantly paid to Caesar's. But as he feels his orgasm build, shuddering through his body so intensely that his vision blacks out for a second, the chance of getting his own hands on Mark dissolves all other thoughts.

…

Later that evening, happily tucked up under Mark's comforter – sweaty, breathless and wrapped together so tightly that their legs are starting to go numb – the turquoise gaze looking down at Caesar from his place cocooned in Mark's arms, the whole Cleo frustration seems far away and unimportant. _Here_, there is just Mark and Caesar, and the millions of crumbs from the pizza they'd eaten some time after midnight. Mark brushes his lips softly against Caesar's temple, burying his face in Caesar's hair, his breath slow and even. He words are mumbled, so quiet and muffled that Caesar barely catches it.

"I love you, even if you did get _crumbs _in my _bed_." His arms constrict even tighter and before Caesar can get out any words, any acceptance and reciprocation, Mark gives a soft snore and lapses in to sleep – something that Caesar now has fuck all chance of doing.


End file.
